


I’ll Come Back, When You Call Me

by hp80



Series: The Call [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Apocalypse, X-Men: Days of Future Past
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Lehnsherr Has PTSD, Erik has Issues, Erik is a Father, Erik is stubborn af, Erik needs a hug, F/M, Hank McCoy is So Done, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Sebastian Shaw, POV Erik Lehnsherr, Pietro Maximoff Feels, Protective Erik, Sassy Raven, Sebastian Shaw Being an Asshole, Sick Character, Sickfic, Unreliable Narrator, Warning for Sebastian Shaw, dadneto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hp80/pseuds/hp80
Summary: No, it’s true.Jean’s voice came flooding back into Erik’s mind once more, this time with an air of determination.Peter’s full name is Pietro Django Maximoff. He was born in 1956 to Magda Maximoff. He’s your son, Erik. Please—you have to believe me.Or: A companion piece toNo Need to Say Goodbyefrom Erik’s POV.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr & Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr & Pietro Maximoff, Erik Lehnsherr & Raven | Mystique, Erik Lehnsherr/Magda (X-Men), Jean Grey & Pietro Maximoff
Series: The Call [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006722
Comments: 57
Kudos: 314





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was going to make this a one shot like [No Need to Say Goodbye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822831), but then I had more and more that I wanted Erik to experience and it became this huge thing, so here we are. That said, it’s not finished, but it’s got a good foundation (at least I think so). I basically just need to do some heavy editing/formatting, so I think— _I think_ —I will have updates every week…we’ll see. If you follow me at all, you know that I’m not good at keeping schedules. Once again, the fic and series title are from the Regina Spektor song _The Call_. And lastly, I do not own X-men or Marvel.

_Erik_.

He immediately tensed at the sound of his name. Looking around for the source within the bazar.

Most recently, he had taken refuge in South Africa. He could’ve gone to Mexico. That might have been the most obvious choice for someone on the run from—among others—the U.S. government. And he had for a time. But ultimately, he had simply been passing through. He could probably have stayed there and disappeared in any major city just as well as he _thought_ that he had in South Africa—he was fluent in Spanish after all—but Mexico did not feel far enough from those who would seek to find him—both friend and foe.

So when the opportunity to cross over to another continent had presented itself, he had seized upon it, thinking he could be just another passing face in the crowd here. As long as he kept his interactions limited and never let anyone look to closely at his face to question why he looked familiar or to listen too long to his voice to ponder the source of his accent, he imagined he would be able to stay for quite some time. That is, until he found some significant reminder of the life he could’ve been living if he had not acted impulsively to _save_ the life of another man. Because that selfless act, had set a chain of events in motion that had _taken_ the life of his wife and child.

But it turned out that all his precautions and careful planning were for naught.

Someone had found him here.

_Erik_.

The voice game again, and this time Erik realized he was not hearing it through his ears, but in his mind. That did little to ease his tension, however. He’d never known a telepath—besides Charles with the help of Cerebro—who could reach a mind without being within fairly close proximity to their victim. Not that it mattered; either way, someone had found him. He couldn’t stay here anymore.

Though, if it was Charles, he could have stayed. He knew Charles wouldn’t betray his location to the authorities, no matter if he had threatened to do so in the past, he’d never truly meant it. And even if he did move upon Charles finding him, it wouldn’t matter because—much to his dismay—there was nowhere he could run where Charles wouldn’t be able to find him. 

But the voice did not belong to his old friend. It was too different, strong but hesitant and female besides.

And _young_.

It was impossible to tell just how young based on a voice alone, but if he had to guess, he’d say the speaker couldn’t be beyond her twenties at the oldest. Not that he was about to let his guard down simply because of youth. The young could be just as deadly as the old. He had been proof enough of that once.

Shaw had made sure of it.

_Who are you, and how did you find me?_

Erik replied in his own mind. The latter question was more important than the former, but he would prefer to have answers to both.

He had already left the bazar, abandoning the plums he had been about to purchase without a second thought. But he had no intention of returning to his sparse flat. There was nothing there he cared for enough to retrieve. Everything and everyone he had ever loved was gone. His only treasured possession was his mother’s locket, which he carried on his person, but even that was tainted now . . . he’d forever sullied it when he had used it to kill after his little girl . . . after his Nina . . .

Erik forced himself out of that particular train of thought. He needed to pay attention. Whoever had contacted him must be close, and could be waiting to attack at any moment. If that happened, he had to be ready. As much as he wasn’t afraid of death, he had no desire to be a prisoner ever again. He had spent enough time under the thumb of another, and he had no intention of returning to such a state. He’d rather die than go back to that. And though it made him sick to think about, it was entirely possible that a mutant could be working with the feds. If so, they would find any mercy that he may have had died along with his family.

_Oh._

Erik may have imagined it, but he thought he could feel the girl flinch back at the force of his animosity.

_Mr. Lehnsherr, I wasn’t sure this would work. I—I—It’s Jean. Jean Grey._

_Jean?_

His response was automatic. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t Jean Grey, the girl who had taken down quite possibly the most powerful being in the history of the world that was allegedly responsible for all mutants’ existence.

_How. . . . Are you using Cerebro? What do you want?_

Erik continued, and though he kept on a course that would eventually lead him to his ‘go-bag’ and then the airport, he was less worried now. But still, he was concerned, not so much about becoming a prisoner anymore, but about what her contacting him might mean. It wasn’t as if they had really bonded in the few short days Erik had spent at the school after everything with Apocalypse. Sure, they had helped rebuild the mansion together, but beyond that, they were merely acquittances. So whatever she was contacting him about could not be good news.

_Yes. I’ve never used it before so that’s—I wasn’t sure it would work. And I—I don’t know what I would’ve done if it didn’t. I—you—you have to come back to the school._

_Why? Is it . . . has something happened . . . to Charles?_

Erik asked. Dread creeping into his ‘voice’. Despite their differences, the world would still be much worse off without Charles Xavier in it.

_No—no he’s fine. The Professor doesn’t even know I planned to contact you._

Erik felt a flash of relief, followed by a wave of annoyance at being bothered if nothing was the matter with Charles, but both feelings were short-lived. It had taken a moment, but he hadn’t missed her inflection.

_Then . . . Raven?_

_No. She’s fine too._

Came Jean’s quick reply.

_Hank?_

Who else was there? Alex, Sean, Angel, Azazel, Emma, Darwin, the rest were already gone. He and Hank . . . well they would never be friends, especially after Paris, but still, he would not wish death upon the man.

_No, all of them are fine._

_Then, why exactly are you contacting me? Why have you gone behind Charles’ back to do so? I left for a reason. I have no desire to be contacted on a teenager’s whim. So someone better be dying._

Gone was his anxiety now. Anger had replaced it, not in full force, but it was there all the same. Was it too much to ask to be left alone to his pitiful existence?

_Someone is . . . It’s—it’s Peter. He’s sick. Really sick. It’s cancer._

Jean replied and there was clear grief and hurt in her voice now. Erik racked his brain. _Peter_ . . . who . . .

An image of a boy with silver hair, flashy clothes, and a cheeky grin came to his mind, answering his own question.

_The speedster?_

_Yes._

Jean was quick to confirm.

_I’m sorry._

And he was. He bore no ill will against the boy. The opposite in fact. Although he was a little over zealous, his powers were something to behold, and without him, Erik might very well still be stuck a hundred floors beneath the Pentagon. 

_He seemed like a good kid._ Erik continued. _But I fail to see how his wellbeing concerns me._

_He needs a bone marrow transplant._ Jean pressed on. _We’ve tested every willing mutant at the school but no one’s a match. He’s on a waitlist too, but he can’t wait years or even months for a match. He—he doesn’t have that kind time._

_So what then? I am your one last shot in the dark is that it?_ Erik asked, admiring the girl a bit for doing everything in her power to help her ailing friend, but he was afraid that her good intentions would be left fruitless. _I understand that you want to do everything you can for your friend, Jean. And I am grateful for Peter’s help in the past, but people die every day. And if his circumstances are as dire as you make them seem, then I doubt I would make it back to Westchester in time to make a difference. Besides, if no one else has been a match, then don’t you think, that the chances are, I won’t be either? Why should I be any different from the rest?_

There was a long pause, so much so that Erik wondered whether their connection had been broken. Maybe Charles or Hank had found Jean using Cerebro without their knowledge, or maybe she’d been so upset by Erik’s reply that she’d cut off their connection willingly.

But then she spoke once more.

_You’re different,_ _because—because . . . you’re his father, Erik._

At that, Erik stopped in his tracks. Someone bumped into him on the busy sidewalk and muttered a profanity before continuing on, but Erik paid them no mind, so caught on _that_ word—father.

Father. . . .

Father. . . .

Father.

_That’s—That’s absurd. And impossible._ Erik said finally. _I’m not—He’s not my son. I don’t have a son. I have no family left. Why on earth would you suggest such a thing? I understand that losing someone you care about is painful—believe me I do—but that you would stoop so low as to suggest that he’s my—that I’m his—it’s preposterous, and I no longer have the patience for this conversation. Goodbye, Miss Grey. _

Though he knew he did not have the power to sever their connection, Erik thoughts were harsh and unrelenting, and if the girl knew what was good for her, she would bother Erik no more. But even as he sought to push her away, the boy’s image returned to his mind and the offhand comment he had once made came back to him . . .

_You know, my mom once knew a guy who could do that._

No.

It wasn’t possible. Before Nina, he had always been careful, careful to make sure there were no little Lehnsherrs running around because he would be the first to admit that from the time he had taken up hunting Shaw again to the moment he met the future mother of his second daughter, he had been in no state to be a father.

_No, it’s true._ Jean’s voice came flooding back into Erik’s mind once more, this time with an air of determination. _Peter’s_ _full name is Pietro Django Maximoff. He was born in 1956 to Magda Maximoff. He’s your son, Erik. Please—you have to believe me._

No. No. No. It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t have had a son out there all this time.

He wanted to ignore the conclusion his mind was speeding toward, but he couldn’t. Because he had been lying to himself. He hadn’t _always_ been careful. There was a time before Nina when he welcomed the thought of being a father.

It felt almost like a dream to him now, or even another lifetime, but as much as he wanted to push it away, he couldn’t stop the unbidden memory from making its way to the forefront of his mind any longer. . . .

* * *

_“So . . .” Erik drawled out, tracing his fingers over the lines on the palm of one of Magda’s hands._

_They were in bed, but in a hotel room, not a home. They didn’t yet have a place to call their own yet, but one day they would. Erik’s nomadic existence until recently hadn’t been conducive to the accumulation of wealth, but they’d get there. They’d never be rich, society had made sure of that, but they’d manage. Together, they’d give their child a home._

_Erik continued, “Anya if it’s a girl, but what if it’s a boy?”_

_Magda turned from her back to her side to face him, her stomach protruding notably with pregnancy. “I told you, I’m almost certain it’s a girl.”_

_“I don’t see how you could possibly know that.” Was Erik’s quick reply. _

_“What, you don’t want a girl?” Magda shot back at him, but it was clear she was joking. She knew Erik had no misconstrued notions about the worth of a child based on gender._

_“You know I would love a little girl, but a boy would be wonderful too. I’m just trying to be prepared.” _

_Magda laughed at him at that and pressed their foreheads together. “There’s no preparing for this. We’ll never be ready, but we’ll figure it out. Together.”_

_Erik smiled back at her. “That we will.” He said clasping her hand in his own larger ones. “But even so . . . humor me, will you? After all, I think she or he might eventually get lonely without a sibling. Don’t you agree?” He asked as he brought her in close for a quick but passionate kiss. _

_Magda rolled her eyes at him after they separated, but answered all the same. “Okay, okay. You’re so pushy. Just like this little one.” Magda said gesturing to her stomach. “Always with the kicking. . . .” She smiled down at her stomach, resting one hand there fondly for a moment. “ If the baby is a boy, which, for the record, she’s not, I like Pietro.”_

* * *

Erik was thrown abruptly back into the present as he let the memory run its course.

_Erik? Mr. Lehnsherr, are you there?_

Jean’s voice came again, softer now, making Erik wonder how much of the memory she had seen.

Erik swallowed. _Y—yes, I’m here. The Boy, he’s—he’s really my son? Truly?_

Erik asked Jean, even though he already knew the answer.

_Yes. He is. . . And he needs your help._

Erik felt his hand begin to shake, but it was that or metal, and he couldn’t let himself be exposed, not now.

_This—this transplant, it will save him?_

He asked, even though he already suspected the answer. However, still, he half-expected Jean to lie to him just to get him to come back to Westchester.

_It might. . . . It might not. And that’s assuming you are a match in the first place._

_So, if I come back . . . I might not be a match, or even if I am, it might not matter? He could still die._

It wasn’t a question.

_Yes._ And Erik was sure he wasn’t imagining the fear in Jean’s voice anymore. _But Erik . . . if you don’t come, it’s not even a question of if. He will die. _

Erik closed his eyes. And just like that, he was in the past, looking down at Anya’s still form, and then Nina’s, both scenes he had lived through and replayed in his mind again and again. But this time the image changed once more. This time, it was The Boy’s body who lay unmoving before him with his eyes wide open and unseeing. Eyes that Erik now realized—if his memory was accurate—looked painfully like that of Anya’s and Nina’s and his late mother’s. 

If Erik was being honest with himself. He still didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to be a father again. Didn’t want to bury another child. But whether or not he went, he still would be responsible for The Boy’s life, and possibly . . . his death. And thus, another one of his children would still end up in the ground. He couldn’t ignore that fact.

_I’m on my way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the plums is a nod to poor Bucky not getting his plums in Captain America: Civil War. Thank you for noticing. (: Sadly, Erik did not get to enjoy plums either.
> 
> Also, I went with 1956 for Peter’s birth year because the [X-men movie Quicksilver wiki page](https://xmenmovies.fandom.com/wiki/Quicksilver) says his date of birth is 1956 in his bio/profile info., but then in the text of the article it says it’s 1955, so . . . not sure what that’s about. Anyway, I think 1956 makes more sense because that would put him at 17 in 1973 when he breaks Erik out. Finally, the use of Erik calling Peter ‘The Boy,’ is in part inspired from Mandalorian’s use of ‘The Child’ and from kvikindi’s dadneto fic, [Tehillim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8404831), which you should all go read because it’s great. Read the first part too. Okay, that’s all for now.


	2. Chapter 2

He was on a plane out of Cape Town within the hour, but it still took him what felt like—and might very well have been—days to make it to Westchester.

Part of the reason for the length of the trip was that he couldn't travel directly to the States. Although fake IDs weren't as difficult to come by as one might think, there were still barriers when it came to traveling as a wanted man. So, for one reason or another, first, he had to travel to South America, and from there he made his way up through Central America until he was able to cross the U.S.-Mexican border under the cover of darkness, rather than risk the strength of an ID.

After all, he was no good to The Boy dead or captured. . . though he might not be any use to him alive either.

Although Erik didn't doubt that he could fight his way out of any unwelcome confrontation, he did not fail to appreciate that the feds had gotten the best of him before, and he'd suffered ten years in isolation for it. And this time, it wasn't just his own life he was risking.

What's more, he'd learned the hard way with Nina, what using his powers in public could cause.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

* * *

When Erik finally made it to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters—as Charles had deemed the place sometime after their parting of ways in '63—he was tired, dirty, and on edge. But he had made it . . . or at least . . . he'd arrived relatively unscathed and without raising any alarms. Whether or not he had made it in time was not yet clear. But no, if he was too late, Jean or Charles—assuming he'd become privy to her use of Cerebro—would have contacted him already. Unless . . . . they hadn't told him because they knew that if _he_ knew that The Boy was already dead, he would have turned right back around.

Erik flew over the school's gates, abandoning the truck he'd commandeered where it was stuck in the mud. He could've freed it with his powers of course, but there was little point when he was so close to his destination. Someone else could dispose of it. He couldn't be the only mutant at the school with the power or strength to move the vehicle.

When he reached the front door, Erik hesitated. Staring at the door, he stood frozen just beyond the shelter of the entrance's awning. It was raining steadily, and as a result, his hair lay plastered to his head; but the water did little to rejuvenate him or ignite any confidence within himself.

He may have stood there forever, if someone had not broken his trance by intruding upon his immobile state. But someone did. It seemed that they had been waiting for him, or, rather, Charles was.

The man smiled up at Erik sadly from just inside the doorway.

"Erik, my friend, thank you for coming." Said Charles, looking as though he wished to reach out and take Erik's hand, but the other man was too far away.

"I'm not—The Boy—he's still—I'm not too late?" Erik asked finally, forcing himself forward.

"No. Peter's still holding on. But he's . . . in a poor state." Said Charles finally, gesturing for Erik to enter.

Erik obeyed stepping across the familiar threshold without a word of response.

Charles guided him silently through the school. Erik could have found the way himself, but he was secretly grateful for Charles' presence. Each step further inside had his heart pounding more rapidly.

They made it to the hidden elevator and stepped (or rolled) inside together still without a word passing between them. There were no students around, and in the back of his mind, Erik wondered what time it was. It was difficult to tell given the state of the weather, and to be honest, Erik had not kept careful track of the time since Jean had contacted him, other than to know that too much of it had passed.

Erik wasn't surprised by their ultimate destination within the school. If The Boy was in as bad of shape as Jean and Charles made it seem, then it made sense that they would have moved him to where they were best equipped to monitor him—i.e., the lab. He assumed that the school now had something that functioned as a day-to-day hospital wing for the students, but if so, he imagined that it was not as well equipped as Hank's workspace.

Nevertheless, Erik kept waiting for Charles to say something as they descended farther into the school, but he didn't. Unlike Erik, he seemed perfectly at ease in the silence. Usually, Erik would be as well, but there was nothing usual about this, so he did not think he was imagining it when he felt a wave of calm come over him. And though that sense of calm may have steadied him some, it could not completely quell his panic. Nothing could do that. But still, it made Erik wonder if he would have fled without Charles' mental prompting because he still felt as though he were standing on a precipice, where one false move would him send him over the edge.

* * *

Not too much later, the elevator door opened again, and Erik was doused in a familiar shock of brightness. It was almost blinding after the darkness outside and the muted lights in the elevator and upstairs corridor.

"This way, Erik." Charles said, as if Erik would get lost in the halls—or the reconstructed ones—he used to prowl with Charles and the others a lifetime ago.

But Erik didn't rebuke him, and instead simply trudged forward, slightly behind him. He wouldn't have been surprised if he left muddy footprints in his wake.

They stopped before one of the first rooms off the main hall. The doors slid open automatically to let Charles enter, and after another moment's hesitation, Erik followed.

The room was much how Erik remembered it, with various lab and medical equipment, and more familiar still, Hank and Raven were there as well.

They looked to be deep in conversation, but when he and Charles entered, both individuals turned to stare at them, or, more precisely, to stare at _him_.

But before anyone could say anything, a breathless voice called out from across the room. "You came."

She had been sitting in an armchair, but stood and rushed over to join them.

Jean was not someone Erik would describe as easy to ignore, but nonetheless, he found his eyes sliding past her to the space she had just occupied . . . .

He could see a plethora of machines and a hospital bed. Erik felt his heart speed up again at the sight, but he quickly looked away before he could make out the bed's occupant with any detail, fixing his eyes back on the trio.

"Yes." Erik replied curtly to Jean's statement because he had nothing else to say to the girl who had revealed that he still had something—someone—to live for . . . but who may also soon have given him another reason to wish for the sweet release of death.

"Alright, Jean. I appreciate your dedication to Peter, but you still have class in the morning and training afterward besides" said Charles breaking the silence. "so if you would please return to your dormitory."

"But, I'd like to know if" Jean started looking none too subtlety over at Erik, but Charles cut her off.

"Jean." Charles said, giving her a sharp look, as the two clearly conversed using means that did not require them to voice words.

"Okay." Jean said finally, shoulders drooping slightly as she turned to leave, but before she departed she addressed Erik once more. "Thank you. For coming."

She left before Erik could reply, not that he had been planning to. He didn't deserve thanks, and it was much too early to be handing it out anyway.

He watched her go. It wasn't hard to guess how Jean and Charles' conversation had gone. It was all but apparent that she wanted to wait to see if Erik was a match for The Boy. To see if Erik could save her friend. Likely, Charles had simply reminded her that—as a telepath—she probably didn't need to be physically present to find out that answer, at least not as close as in the same room. He wasn't telling her to go to bed because she was a child who needed sleep, he was asking her to give Erik some semblance of privacy for what may come.

Apparently, however, Raven didn't think he deserved that courtesy because she made no move to leave. She stared at him—not with hostility exactly—but more accusatorially, as though if he weren't a match, it would be his fault.

Maybe it would be. He was to blame for so much that it became difficult at times to draw a line in the sand that could definitely mark the end of his responsibility.

"Come on then, Erik." Said Hank, wasting no time grabbing Erik by the elbow none-too-gently and forcing him to sit on the edge of one of the exam tables. In normal circumstances, Erik would have, at the very least, attempted to shrug the other man off, but these weren't normal circumstances, so instead, Erik did not resist as Hank all but pushed him onto the table.

Hank retreated to a nearby work station but returned seconds later.

"Open." Hank commanded, staring at Erik.

"What?" Erik asked uncomprehending, though he should've realized what Hank meant right away. It was why he was here after all. But stress and lack of sleep had Erik's brain firing on less than all cylinders. He would have thought that they—or at least Charles—would have given him a moment of peace before poking and prodding him, but perhaps they were worried—rightfully so—that given too much time to think, Erik would run rather than face what was to come.

"Your mouth, Erik. Open it." Hank clarified, raising one gloved hand up and causing Erik to notice the long Q-tip held between his fingertips.

"Oh." Said Erik dumbly as he complied. He felt his eyes dart to the bed across the room once again, but he quickly forced them back forward before Hank had even moved.

Then, a moment later, Hank was swabbing the inside of his cheek with the Q-tip and storing said Q-tip in a sealable beaker.

He left again to store the specimen on a nearby counter, and returned with rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball.

"Arm." Erik complied, understanding this time what Hank needed. He rolled up his sleeve without having to be asked.

Hank quickly cleansed his inner arm near the crease of his elbow, tossed the used cotton ball, and left once again, only to return with three empty vials, some sort of wrapping, and a needle apparatus.

Hank took the wrapping and tied it around Erik's upper arm, making a tourniquet.

"Make a fist." Hank commanded without further explanation.

As soon as Erik complied, Hank went immediately back to examining Erik's arm, looking for an acceptable vein.

He must have found one because a moment later he picked up the needle and a vial. Then, for the first time in the past few minutes he looked up from his work and met Erik's eyes.

"Don't move." Hank said sternly, as if Erik was suddenly going to switch from passive obedience to outright resistance.

"I. Won't." Erik replied a little sharply. But in truth, every instinct in his body was telling him to leave. To pull away from Hank. To leave the room, the school, and the states. To leave The Boy behind to remain—like Schrödinger's cat—simultaneously both alive and dead . . . in a box he would never open.

He had never let Hank study him the way he had Raven or any of the others. Never given him so much as a pinprick of blood to work with. Because someone had taken it before—taken his blood and so much more—in the years when the last remnants of his childhood slipped so quickly away, and he never had any intention of letting it happen again. Yet, here he was, willingly allowing his blood to be siphoned from his body, all because of The Boy.

Erik tightened his fist even more, pushing down his discomfort, and ignoring both his past and the reason it was necessary for him to let Hank take his blood in the first place.

If he noticed Erik's unease (or increased unease), Hank didn't comment on it, just filled his vials with practiced precision, wrapped Erik's arm around the puncture wound, and continued his work.

Finished with the blood extraction, Hank came back to Erik holding a small empty container with a plastic lid on top of it. "Don't miss."

Erik took the cup, not immediately comprehending, and stared at Hank blankly for a moment before it clicked.

Oh.

Hank seemed to think that Erik was still clueless; however, because he chose to spell it out for him too.

"Pee in the cup, Erik. Bathroom's that way." Said Hank pointing to one corner.

"Well that's my cue to leave." Said Raven, speaking for the first time. Honestly, Erik had almost forgotten she and Charles were in the room too, focused as he was on trying not to think about anything, and not to mention the fact that they had both been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole business, as if speaking might jinx any results.

"Erik, pleasure as always." Raven added as she glided past him, but there was an unexpected hint of warmth or—or _sympathy_ in her tone. "Charles, keep me posted."

"Of course." Charles replied.

After that, Erik did as Hank requested (managing not to spill) and returned shortly thereafter.

"Is that everything?" Asked Erik. Beyond his agitation at being poked in prodded, he wasn't annoyed exactly, he just . . . felt like things were moving slowly, and on top of that, he was still avoiding the elephant (or perhaps the—former—cheetah) in the room.

"Yes." Said Hank, not looking up from his work. "For now anyway. If the plan was to have you do a PBSC—peripheral blood stem cell—donation, you'd have days of injections ahead of you to stimulate the white blood cells and stem cells in your blood stream, but Peter's best bet at this point is a bone marrow stem cell donation directly from your pelvic bone . . . assuming you're a match that is."

Erik cringed. He felt a renewed flutter of guilt that it had come to this. But at the same time, he was glad he wouldn't be subjected to days of injections, which made him feel all the more ashamed of himself. Shouldn't he feel grateful that there was any chance of helping The Boy? If it was Anya or Nina, he'd gouge out his own eye to save them if it would have any effect.

"I'll have the results ready by tomorrow morning," Hank continued. "If you're a match, I'll run an EKG and a couple of other tests on you tomorrow to make sure you're up for the procedure, and then I'll perform the operation the following morning."

Erik ground his teeth together, thinking that that timeline felt unnecessarily long, but although Erik believed he was much more knowledgeable than Hank on certain aspects of life, this wasn't one of them, so he had to trust the other man to know what was necessary.

With that, Hank turned back to the tools in front of him, already diving back into his work, leaving Erik standing awkwardly behind him.

"Erik." It took Charles' familiar voice to give him some direction. "I think it's time you see Peter."

At Charles words, Erik felt his eyes dart uncontrollably toward the bed at the other end of the room before he forced them back on Charles.

"I don't . . . think that's a good idea." Erik said after a moment eyes once again flickering over to the only occupied bed in the room and then quickly back to Charles.

Charles gave him that same sad smile he had displayed when Erik first arrived. "My friend, you've already come all this way. You can manage a few more steps, don't you think?"

_No._ Erik thought, dropping his eyes to the floor. _I can't. I can't face him. I can't look at him lying there on his death bed. And know that it is_ _my_ _fault._

_Oh Erik._ Charles voice spoke to him, silently this time. _You_ _can_ _. If all goes well, you'll have a chance to meet your son properly, but if not . . . I think on some level, Peter would be glad to know you're here. And it's not your fault, Erik. No one asks for these things. No one is to blame. Sometimes tragedies simply happen. There's not always a monster to hunt down._

_You're wrong._ Erik thought, though he hoped Charles had not caught the 'reply'. But, nevertheless, slowly, Erik made his way toward the bed. This time intentionally keeping his eyes trained carefully on the ground, until he was right in front of The Boy.

But there wasn't a boy—or a young man he supposed—in the bed, only a skeleton, or at least, it certainly seemed that way. If he hadn't known beforehand that the shadow of a boy before him was the same kid that he'd looked up to see smirking down at him in his cell back in '73, he never would have connected the two as one in the same. His silver hair—which stuck out so distinctly in Erik's memory of The Boy—was gone now, leaving behind a smooth head that only served to highlight the bones that stuck out much too prominently in his face. His complexion, which could have been described as ghostly even before, now made him look almost transparent. And that was just scratching the surface. There was an oxygen cannula in his nose, and too many tubes and wires attached to his body for anyone to mistake him for sleeping peacefully. Like that would even have been possible given his rail thin frame.

It was so much worse than Erik had imagined, and with his past, he had no trouble imagining people on the verge of death.

_I'm too late._

_You don't know that. Not yet._ A voice responded within his mind, but it wasn't his own.

_Get out of my head, Charles._ Erik growled venomously from within, pulling his gaze away from his—his—away from The Boy to glare at Charles.

_You're projecting, Erik, which is understandable given the circumstances._

In his mind, Erik pictured a brick wall, hoping he could mentally block Charles out.

Charles just looked at him like he didn't know why he bothered to try to keep his thoughts hidden when it was clearly an impossible task for a man staring down at his dying son.

All of a sudden there was a slight pressure on his arm; and Erik was embarrassed to say that he flinched at the touch, but it was only Charles.

"You should get some rest." Charles said, for once out loud.

Erik wanted to object, to say that he should stay here with . . . The Boy, but he couldn't deny that he was exhausted and . . . also, he wasn't that good of man. He couldn't stay by The Boy knowing the state he was in. So instead of arguing with Charles, he just nodded, and once more let himself be led away. He glanced over his shoulder as he left to see Hank furiously typing away on a computer.

He wondered if that was a good sign . . . or a bad one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did quite a bit of research on bone marrow donation, so I hope everything seems somewhat realistic so far. Though, I recognize that what they were doing in the 80s for bone marrow donations might not resemble what they do today, but if anything ends up being too advanced for the time, we'll just chalk it up to Hank being really smart. Also, all of the kudos to any bone marrow donors out there. Thanks for saving lives! Stay golden.
> 
> On an unrelated note, who else is pumped for WandaVision?! I just saw a couple of days ago that the release date is set for January 2021, so here's to hoping 2021 is a much better year than 2020.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fyi, I didn't want two Magdas, so Nina's mother's name is Natalia.

Erik followed Charles in a daze, not noticing that he was being led to the room he had once claimed so long ago.

"I apologize." Said Charles before opening the door. His voice was quiet, probably wary of waking any of the sleeping students. "I imagine it might be hard for you to stay here, but well . . . there was really no other unoccupied room at the moment. There was . . . an incident with one of the students a day or so ago. No one was hurt, but trust me, you do _not_ want to stay in any of the affected rooms until they've been cleaned up."

Erik stared at Charles blankly, thinking he meant that it would be difficult for him to stay in the room that, for a time, was quite familiar to him because Charles was in fact leading Erik to his old haunt, but he would soon find out that that was not what Charles had meant at all.

"I'll try to scrounge up something for you to eat, which you really _should_ eat if you're still awake when I return. But Erik, please do at the very least _try_ to get some sleep. If all goes well, you'll need your strength these next couple of days." Charles gently scolded.

Charles looked like he wanted to say more, but Erik supposed his friend didn't have to read his mind to know that he wanted to be left alone, so, with another sympathetic look, Charles retreated the way they had come, leaving Erik to enter the room alone.

He recognized that it had been a number of years since he'd stayed in this room—or the pre-explosion and pre-reconstructed version of it—but still he expected much of the same set up as had decorated the room when he had last occupied it. That is, he anticipated a simple, but sophisticated, interior composed of antique and expensive looking furniture with paintings adorning the walls that looked like they belonged in a museum rather than a school.

Thus, the chaos before him was almost enough to shock some energy back into him.

Almost.

But it _was_ enough to distract him from sleep (or the attempt to acquire it) for a little while longer. He should have realized that the room would not have remained untouched, especially after it had been rebuilt. Yes, he should have known that someone, some _child_ would have taken it over and made it his or her own. He expected that there were very few children who would like their room to look like it belonged in a Victorian era mansion. He supposed whoever it belonged to was bunking with another student or away on holiday.

No, the room was not what he remembered. Far from it. Now, there was chaos. Or well, perhaps _organized_ chaos because there did seem to be some bizarre structure to it all. The walls were covered with posters from bands and movies—most of which Erik didn't recognize—graffiti writing that he couldn't quite comprehend, and even a traffic sign that simply said: SLOW.

The other effects of the room gave off a similar dizzying, yet somewhat controlled vibe. There was a miniature bookcase stacked to capacity with cassette tapes. He presumed there was some sort of classification system determining their arrangement, but he could not even begin to guess at what it might be. Beside the miniature bookcase stood a full-sized bookcase, large enough to hold a combination record/8-track player. Accompanying the player were records and 8-track tapes above and below it, which once again looked in disarray to the untrained eye.

It was as if the room's owner was trying to consume music in every possible format available to him (or her, he supposed). His eyes traveled past the bookcase bursting with music to the desk beside it, expecting to find a smattering of school books, and there _were_ books, but none immediately struck him as textbooks. Instead, there was a wide assortment of novels, and even a few nonfiction works, scattered across the desk. This time, Erik got the sense that there was no subtle organizational system going over his head. Rather, books from The Shining and Dune to the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy were stacked in a near-toppling and well-worn tower sitting precariously close to the edge of the desk. Surprisingly though, these books were joined by other more heavy hitting ones that even Erik recognized, though he had no desire to read them—not when he had lived through the events himself—including the Diary of Anne Frank and Night.

These books, however, were not what had caught his eye. No, what had attracted his attention was the electronic keyboard sitting atop the desk, occupying the remaining limited non-book space. He couldn't help the small smile that ghosted across his lips at the sight. Though they'd never been able to afford a piano, that hadn't stopped his mother from being able to play beautifully. In a small corner of his memory, he could still see her, sitting in the synagogue, playing a quiet melody.

But the longer he held that memory in his mind, the more it hurt, and so, he moved on, past the milk crates containing even more records and the horrendous stack of unopened Hostess boxes piled along one wall to the room's double bed.

The sight made him frown. Although the comforter matched the room's décor—it was quilted pattern made out of what looked like old t-shirts—the state of it stood in stark contrast to the rest of the room's slightly methodical untidiness.

It was neatly made, almost clinically so, with sharp creases and perfectly aligned pillows. It was as if someone besides the room's normal occupant had come in and tidied up, which he supposed was possible. Maybe Charles had a cleaning service come in and straighten up the place every so often, but that seemed unlikely. Charles probably wanted the students' to feel as though they had some semblance of privacy, when in actuality there was next to nothing they could hide from him. Besides, wouldn't the person cleaning have disposed of or confiscated the sugary snacks, if they were worried about cleanliness and order?

But nevertheless, Erik dismissed this outlier. The partially open closet door with tennis shoes—some falling to pieces others looking almost new—should also have alerted him that there was something not-quite-right about the room. Even Erik's previous assumption that the student it belonged to was away for one benign reason or another would, in a moment, feel entirely senseless in face of the obvious answer to the occupant's absence. But either due to lack of sleep or unconscious denial, Erik needed a more obvious smoking gun.

And he found it in the form of a photograph.

Tacked to a floor-length mirror hung on the wall was a single photo, worn and cherished. In it, a woman with long auburn hair faced the camera, but her eyes were not looking toward the photographer. Instead, her gaze strayed to the figure she wrapped tightly in a loving embrace. And that figure, was a beaming young boy of about nine or ten. A boy, with eyes so brown they were nearly black and . . . silver hair.

Erik immediately felt his throat constrict and a chill run down his spine.

He recognized both individuals in the photo. There was Magda—his first love (and first heartbreak)—and The Boy—Pe—his—his—

Erik couldn't breathe. Yet, somehow, he still found himself in the room's adjoining bathroom retching the nearly empty contents of his stomach into the sink.

Why had Charles put him here? Was it really the only option? Did he enjoy watching his former friend be reduced to a ghost of a man in a room belonging to a ghost of a boy?

No. Charles wasn't that cruel, but there was a purpose to it, he knew. There was a purpose to _everything_ Charles did.

More than likely, Charles wanted him to know The Boy's tastes and habits. His likes and dislikes. His talents and struggles, whether or not Erik ever learned such details from The Boy himself _._

But even Charles had to realize that couldn't come close to being the same thing. Just in the same way that Nina's belongings were nothing more than things once she was gone, so too was this room filled with items whose deeper meaning was or—in The Boy's case— _would be_ lost to him once said child ceased to exist.

So maybe that wasn't Charles' logic. Maybe Charles wanted Erik to hold onto hope that he would be a match and The Boy would pull through. That a room that felt so alive with color and care couldn't belong to someone who was dying, but to someone who was _fighting_.

But Erik had long ago learned that hope could only lead to disappointment, or worse . . .

* * *

Charles found him there some time later, sitting in a daze on the bathroom floor with his back against the vanity. In reality, it couldn't have been that long because Erik had yet to pass out from exhaustion, but from the time he entered not-his room to when he stumbled into the bathroom, felt like a lifetime.

He hadn't yet managed the courage to return to the bedroom because it was easier here. Easier to remain in a room where it was more difficult for The Boy's personality to invade. With the neatly folded towels on top of a cabinet and the sweet smell of some generic lavender soap, it was almost possible to pretend he was in some generic bathroom in a well-to-do hotel. But there were still hints of The Boy in the room, in the brightly-colored nearly-neon toothbrush, the forgotten band t-shirt just barely peeking out from under a corner of a cabinet, and the dog-eared copy of Maus on the counter.

"Erik . . . " Charles spoke softly but firmly. "Let's get you up off the floor, hmm?"

"I'm quite fine here, thank you." Said Erik, emotionlessly, not bothering to look up.

"You're really not. Come now, Erik. I've brought you some dinner. Being that you're still up, and have displaced any remaining substance within your stomach, you should eat something." Said Charles, and indeed when Erik glanced up at his friend, there was a tray on his lap. He hadn't brought him much—evidently having sense enough to realize that Erik would be resistant to eating—just some peanut butter toast, soup, an apple, and what looked like tea.

"Believe it or not, Charles, I'm not hungry." Said Erik looking back down at the floor, which turned out to be a mistake because his eyes locked on a stray strand of silver hair that had been there for who knows how long, somehow miraculously escaping any cleaning jaunts, and so, Erik was forced to look back up at Charles, rather than be haunted by it.

"I understand that, but you should keep your strength up, if not for yourself, then for Peter. If the procedure comes to fruition, then I'm sure Hank will have you fast tomorrow in preparation."

Erik glared up at the younger man, but didn't say anything because he couldn't argue with that logic, even if he had the energy to do so. Because if he did, what would that say about him? Could he not even manage to do the bare minimum for The Boy? Again he thought, what if it was Nina or Anya lying in that bed down there fighting for their life? Wouldn't he be able to down some sustenance if it was for their sake? Why should it be different with The Boy?

But it _was_ different.

And it wasn't Anya or Nina in the bed downstairs. He was acutely aware of that fact.

And yet . . .

Erik reached out and grabbed a piece of the toast from the tray, took an obnoxiously large bite, chewed it quickly, and swallowed. It was perfectly done, with the sweet and salty nutty flavor of peanut butter permeating the bread, but as detached as Erik was from the idea of eating, it might as well have tasted like cardboard. Nevertheless, Erik forced himself to finish the slice. He downed the apple and tea just as mechanically, but ignored the soup, not trusting his hands to remain steady enough to eat it.

When he was finished, Charles smiled down at him like he was a child who'd finally listened to a voice of reason.

"Happy?" Asked Erik with disdain.

"More so than I was at least. Thank you." Answered Charles, his smile softening.

Part of Erik felt like rolling his eyes, but that part was overwhelmed by his other feelings of sadness, helplessness, and guilt. All of which grounded Erik enough for him to know that _he_ —not Charles—was the one behaving irrationally.

"Why was it Jean who contacted me? _Why_ didn't _you_ call me before it got this bad? Were you ever even going to?" _Why did you put me in this room?_ All but the last question were out before Erik even realized they were on his mind. "I could have—I _would have_ come back sooner. If I'd known months or even _weeks_ before now, he might still have had a chance . . ."

"He still has a chance, Erik." Said Charles firmly, with real conviction that Erik certainly could not even hope to reciprocate. "And I was going to contact you. As a matter of fact, I was going to use Cerebro to track you down on the same day Jean reached out to you. She simply beat me to it. As to why I didn't contact you sooner . . . Peter asked us not to, and I was trying to honor that wish, until I absolutely could do so no longer."

Erik hadn't wanted a son, at least not for many many years. After Anya's death, he swore he would never have another child. His heart could not take even the possibility of the loss of a child again, but then Nina came along and he couldn't imagine life without her, though he lived that life now, no imagining needed. But Nina shined so brightly that he and Natalia hadn't felt a longing for another child.

But still, the fact that The Boy hadn't want him to come . . . it hurt.

_He doesn't want me as a father._

"No, Erik. You're wrong." Charles replied aloud. Erik couldn't even find it in himself to be annoyed that he read his mind. "He very much wants you as a father. He has been longing for a father his entire life, and he is more than willing to give you the chance to take up that role. What he didn't want was for you to watch another one of your children die. He wanted to spare you that pain."

Erik closed his eyes at Charles' reply, but still he couldn't stop one tear from escaping and trailing down the side of his face.

But said tear wasn't completely one of sadness, but of shame, because a part of Erik wished that they hadn't called him. That they would have honored The Boy's wishes and spared him from this horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt anyone really cares, but I usually do my best to try to be as accurate as possible when it comes to movie/book references within a fic, so I did some research and from what I could tell, Maus was first published (at least part of it) as a book in 1986. Before that, it had appeared in serialized form in a magazine. Do I see this story as taking place in 1986? Maybe. Maybe not quite there yet, but we'll call it close enough. The main point is that I wanted to show through some of the books that Peter had been reading that he has been trying his best to connect with and understand his father, even if Erik was oblivious to his existence.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik did eventually find his way to bed, collapsing on top of it fully clothed.

He woke to the sound of birds chirping and children laughing outside his window, and that hurt, almost as much as seeing The Boy lying frail and broken upon the hospital bed. He wanted to linger between dreamland and reality for a little longer, and pretend the laughter belonged to Nina and the chirping was her woodland friends.

But Erik rarely got what he wanted; and besides, eventually, he would have to face real world, just as he had the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that . . .

Charles must have made the fact that Erik was awake known because mere minutes later, Raven was bursting through his door without so much as a knock.

They stood there staring at each other—she naked and blue as always, and he disheveled and red-eyed from a restless night’s sleep.

In all honesty, at first, Erik was afraid to look at her. Afraid that he would immediately be able to tell, just by looking at her face, whether he held the key to saving The Boy that, for all intents and purposes, he never knew existed, for surely Hank had made the determination by now and told the others.

But he need not have worried about _that_ at least. Gone was the girl whose emotions he could read as plain as day. Instead a woman—though she, like Erik, had hardly aged a day as far as appearances were concerned—stood before him whose face gave nothing away.

Their silent standoff continued for a moment longer, and Erik—unable to take the silence and unknown any longer—was just about to say something, when Raven spoke.

“Well, Erik, you ass. Looks like you can finally do some good. You’re a match.”

“I’m—I’m a match?” Erik repeated, as though it could not be true until he said it out loud. In a life that had handed him losing card after losing card, it seemed impossible that life had finally dealt him a decent hand.

“You’re a match.” Raven repeated with more conviction. And then, in a very _very_ un-Raven-like moment—especially considering that she had just called him an ass—she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

But before Erik had time to digest what was happening, or even entertain the idea of reciprocating, the normal Raven was back, disengaging from the one-sided hug and grabbing his arm in a fierce grip to pull him toward the door.

“Come on, Erik. Time to save your son.”

* * *

The rest of the day went much how his morning had begun, with Erik being pulled or ordered around, though this time it was mostly by Hank.

As much as Erik felt as though he wanted to bolt and just pretend the whole situation wasn’t happening, more than the urge to flee, Erik felt incredibly frustrated.

Hank put him through a full physical, testing his blood pressure, lung capacity, and performing other routine tests one might expect to endure at an annual checkup—if Erik had ever gone to such things—rather than in preparation of a potentially lifesaving donation to one’s s—s—.

He voiced his complaints to Hank, seeing no point to them because, Erik was not turning back from this now. He was ‘going under the knife’ so to speak for his—for The Boy whether or not he was in pique physical condition or not. But his words did nothing to dissuade Hank from his tasks. He practically growled at Erik for suggesting such a thing. Apparently, although Erik was an ‘asshole,’ it was still Hank’s job to keep him alive, and he took that job _very_ seriously. Hank was rightfully more concerned about The Boy, but still, he wasn’t about to shirk any of his doctor-patient duties as far as Erik was concerned either.

But after a tense moment when the two men were almost literally at each other’s throats—Erik may or may not have barred his teeth at the other man (though Hank should be glad that Erik had resisted the rather shark-like urge to bite his hand) when he’d finally had enough of him shining lights in his eyes for some reason Erik couldn’t quite grasp—Hank threw his hands in the air declared that he needed a break, though apparently, the break was just from Erik because he took copious amounts of materials with him when he departed from the main lab room; thus indicating to Erik that he planned to continue working, just—for the moment—without the metal bender’s presence.

It was on said ‘break’ that Erik collapsed into the armchair by The Boy’s bed, more so out of exhaustion than a conscious act, though some part of him knew he had chosen the chair to be closer to The Boy. He’d just closed his eyes, trying not to think about anything in particular, when he heard it.

“ ‘usic”

Erik flinched, his eyes snapping open out of reflex. Immediately, he turned his head to the source of the noise. Though it made no sense, the only possible place the sound could have come from was the person beside him—The Boy.

What he saw when he looked over, again, seemed impossible. The Boy’s eyes were open. They were unfocused, but they were open.

“Can’t ‘ear any, ‘usic.” The Boy continued, raising one hand slightly as if he wanted to tuck a non-existent hair behind his ear, though his hand never made it anywhere close to his face before it fell back down on the bed. Meanwhile, Erik just stared at The Boy. He was frozen from the shock of it—hearing him speak and somewhat look around, when he seemed so . . . .

But as quickly as the bout of consciousness came, it was gone again. The Boy’s eyes fell closed once more, and Erik half thought he had imagined the whole affair until another voice spoke behind him.

“I was hoping he’d wake up a bit today. It’d be great if he’d rouse for a longer than a few seconds, but anything is better than nothing. His spells of consciousness are coming fewer and farther between these days.” Said Hank with a sigh. Erik turned to see the scientist standing behind him with a new folder beneath one arm, looking as though he had come into retrieve said folder only to hear The Boy’s momentary rambling.

“He—he still has moments of lucidness?” asked Erik, shocked, thinking that what he witnessed had to have been a one-time event.

“I said consciousness, not lucidness.” Replied Hank, but when he answered Erik’s question, his tone was kinder than it had been all day. “But again, foggy conscious spells are better than _no_ conscious spells. If he wasn’t having even that, I’d be afraid that the chances of a successful bone marrow transplant would drop significantly.”

Erik wanted to ask what Hank viewed as the chances of a successful transplant were _now_ , but he was too afraid to ask.

“I see.” Said Erik, though he didn’t, not really. But once again, he didn’t want to ask for clarification, preferring to imagine that The Boy was waking up frequently and engaging in some sort of conversation, rather than it being a rare occasion.

“I should have seen if any of the other kids have an extra stereo, but with everything else going it slipped my mind. Kurt accidentally broke the one we had in here when he bumped into it with his tail the other day, and I just haven’t gotten around to acquiring a new one or repairing it. But up until then, we—or Jean and the others really—have tried to play some of his music. Music therapy has actually been shown to rouse coma patients. Obviously, this is not the same situation, but it makes the kids feel better, and it really can’t hurt. It’s good that he’s essentially asking for it.”

Erik tried to nod in acknowledgement, but he wasn’t sure that his head actually moved. With the mention of music, The Boy in front of him again flickered from Nina to Anya in his mind’s eye. And all he could think about was the last time he’d tucked Nina into bed and sang her a Polish lullaby, and before that, the last time he had done the same for Anya.

He’d never get to do that for The Boy, even if he lived. Erik had missed so much of The Boy’s life already—he was well past the age of lullabies—but relatively speaking, he was still so young.

Much too young to die.

“Usually, he asks for his mom.” Hank added, oblivious to Erik’s inner monologue.

Although he found Hank’s comment in rather poor taste, it was at that moment, that for the first time in a long time, Erik allowed himself to think of his first love. Though because her absence spoke volumes—even if she weren’t a match, Magda would never leave her child to die alone, would never even entertain the idea as Erik had; she had always been stronger than him—Erik didn’t really need to ask, but he did anyway.

“His mother . . . she’s dead?” asked Erik.

“Yes. Not for that long now, but long enough not to know he was sick again.” Hank replied.

_Again?_ And once more Erik wanted to ask him what he meant, but he didn’t, and Hank didn’t clarify. Instead, he asked about Magda, because nothing more could hurt her.

“How?”

“Car accident. Bad weather and a drunk driver. He puts on—or _put_ on—a brave face, but he took it pretty hard. I don’t think he’s too close with his half-sister, so . . . I know I haven’t said it before, but for his sake, I’m glad you’re here. Really, I am.”

Erik didn’t reply. Instead, he wondered how much it would hurt to wake up after a near fatal illness to see your parent—if you could call Erik that—beside you, but not the one you want. If he ever did truly wake up again.

“You know, that’s usually a pilot’s last word.”

“What?” asked Erik, thrown by the sudden change of subject and unsure what the other man meant.

“Before pilots’ crash,” Hank clarified. “Often, they call out for their mother.”

At that, Erik whipped his head around to look at Hank, angry and ready to hurtle that anger at the Hank. Why would he say that? As The Boy stood on the precipice of life and death, how could he think that Erik would want to hear something like that? But when he laid eyes on the other man, Hank wasn’t looking at Erik at all. Instead, he was looking down at The Boy with such utter sadness that uncharacteristically, Erik found his anger fading. Hank wasn’t trying to antagonize Erik at all. It was just Hank being Hank, offering random tidbits of knowledge that he couldn’t keep in his head to avoid grief that he didn’t know how to handle. And though that wasn’t Erik’s style, he could relate to the latter.

Erik was loath to say that something passed between them then, but somehow they came to a silent agreement to get back to work. Hank abandoned his folder on a nearby table, and Erik allowed Hank to go back to running him through the mill.

* * *

Eventually, somehow day turned to night, and Hank was finally satisfied. All that he required of Erik now was a 12 hour fast and some rest. Then, in the morning, well . . . Hank would be doing the rest of the work.

Erik hovered by The Boy’s bed again, not really looking at The Boy. It was difficult, but Erik still stayed close by, comforted by the fact that if something went sideways, one of the numerous machines The Boy was hooked up to would sound some sort of alarm.

Across the room, he could tell Hank, Charles, and Raven were talking about him again, mostly because Hank kept glancing in his direction. He wondered if they—well the nonmindreaders—were still concerned about him bolting, but in fact, Charles at least would know that tonight he planned on doing the opposite.

He would stay by his The Boy’s side, now, and after the operation. He would be there when he woke up, and he would be there if he . . . .

Erik swallowed, choking back that train of thought as the trio approached him.

“You should head up to bed, Erik.” Charles said as he maneuvered his chair up to Erik and then angled it toward him. “I was going to ask the kids—his teammates—to sleep down here tonight, so he won’t be alone. I’ve told them you and Hank needed some space today, but they’re eager to check in on him again.”  
  


“I’m fine here.” Said Erik firmly, not bothering to look in Charles’ direction, though he did wonder if the man was surprised by Erik’s resolve when only the night before, he’d allowed Charles to lead him away from The Boy so easily. To be honest, Erik was surprising himself. The existence of The Boy—in terms of his relation to Erik—was still like a fresh wound, but the shock of it was wearing off.

“You’re not going to do your back any favors by staying the night here. The kids know to call me if something happens during the night. There will be more than enough people watching over him without _you_ here.” Added Hank, and despite their earlier truce, there may have been a little resentment in his voice, but Erik could hardly blame him for that. Hank had been here caring for The Boy for who knew how long. Erik, on the other hand, had been a world away. But still, he felt his nostrils flare.

“But _I_ am here now. And I shall remain _here_.” Erik replied, besides, he didn’t know if he could spend another night in The Boy’s room.

Hank and Charles both opened their mouths to argue again, but Raven cut them off before either could get a word in edgewise.

“Honestly boys, stop babying him. This is _Magneto_. He slept in a concentration camp for years, didn’t he? And who knows where he’s been since Apocalypse? He looks like he’s spent more than a couple of nights in someplace much worse than this. I think he can handle sleeping on the floor for one night. It’s not going to kill _him_.” Raven finished, meeting Erik’s eyes as she did, and Erik felt a wave of gratitude for her wash through him, even if her words brought up difficult memories.

Charles and Hank wore identical frowns as they gazed back at Raven.

“Oh, alright. If you must. But at the very least, I’m getting you pillow. Hank, see if you can find something for him to sleep on. We must have a cot or mat around this place somewhere.” Said Charles with a sigh.

“I’m not an errand boy,” Hank muttered under his breath, but he took off to go search for the requested items nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, I don’t know if the coma thing about music is true, but I feel like it could be. Also, Hank’s comment that pilots call out for their mom before a crash came from a fiction book I read recently called The Pilot’s Wife, so I’m not sure that is true either.


	5. Chapter 5

True to his word, Charles did bring him a pillow; in fact, he gave him two, along with a blanket Erik didn't plan on using. And eventually, Hank brought him some sort of mat that might once have been used for gymnastics or wrestling . . . on second thought, maybe he would use the blanket, but to cover the mat rather than himself, thinking of all the sweaty teenagers who might have rolled around—or worse—on the contraption.

Once Charles was satisfied that he was equipped for the evening, he retreated, turning off the lights behind him.

And then, illuminated only by the soft glow of hospital equipment and its accompanying sounds, Erik was alone.

Well, not completely alone.

The Boy was there too . . . just barely.

But Erik had gone back to ignoring The Boy, already on the floor, on top his allotted mat of questionable origins. He told himself it was because he was listening to Hank and Charles and trying to actually get some rest, which he was more likely to accomplish lying down than in a chair, no matter how comfortable said chair was. But in truth, as had become evident by now, he found looking at The Boy too . . . difficult.

And, in all honesty, _if_ The Boy got better, he wasn't sure that would change. True, right now it was difficult to look at The Boy because he was shadow of his former self, but if he regained his health, Erik worried that he would still be unable to look at him. When he studied his face then, would he see Nina or Anya in the contours of it?

Or, perhaps worse . . . would he see himself?

He didn't know if he could stand either—looking at a blurred visage of his dead daughters or a foggy mirror of himself—and knowing that The Boy was cursed simply by being related to him.

* * *

He must have tossed and turned for hours before he fell asleep, but his restlessness had nothing to do with a lack of physical comfort. He could've spent the night on the most comfortable bed in the mansion and he would have had the same experience.

His lack of sleep did not go unnoticed when he woke to the sound of Hank and Raven whispering.

Erik sat up to find them looking over at him.

"Good morning." Said Raven. Then after a moments pause. "Just so you know, you look like shit."

Erik refrained from rolling his eyes because he wasn't so petty, and she probably wasn't wrong. Besides, it was good to see that Raven's charming personal remained intact. Her yoyoing from Erik's reluctant ally to his verbal tormenter was starting to give him whiplash.

"Thank you, Raven." Erik replied sarcastically.

"Did you even get _any_ sleep?" asked Hank, looking far too frustrated for so early in the morning, but given what was to come, Erik wasn't surprised that he was worked up.

"I'm fine." Said Erik automatically.

"Clearly." Said Raven, raising an eyebrow.

"Weren't you the one that said I would be fine sleeping here last night?" Erik replied as he cleared his throat, still adjusting to the waking world.

"I said it wouldn't kill you, not that you would be _fine._ I think 'you' and 'fine' went separate ways a long time ago. But don't get so worked up about Erik, Hank. He's like me—tough to kill." Raven said as she leaned casually against the wall, but as she made that final statement, her eyes moved past Erik to the figure lying behind him, and the confident smirk on her face disappeared. And he knew that at that moment they were both thinking or _hoping_ the same thing—that The Boy was as difficult to kill as his father.

"Where's Charles?" asked Erik, changing the subject.

"Handling a fight." Said Hank, and then it was Erik's turn to raise an eyebrow at the other two.

"Don't ask." Said Raven. "Teenagers are _far_ too emotional."

"Right." Said Erik, as if he agreed. But, in all honesty, the only perspective he had on teenagers was from his own time as one, which wasn't exactly typical. Anya, Nina—they never got to be teenagers. And The Boy—though he could easily pass as one—was past those years already, and Erik had missed them . . . and there was more than a small chance that he'd miss the coming years too . . . because there wouldn't be any more . . . not for The Boy.

"He'll be down soon." Said Hank, pulling something out of a cupboard and then turning around and tossing said something at Erik.

"Put that on." Said Hank already turning back around to work on something.

Erik held up the item tossed to him, it was a standard hospital gown. He stared at it a moment, realizing that this was really and finally happening. He was about to go under the knife for someone who—despite their relation—was practically a stranger.

"Problem?" asked Raven. "Is it not your style? Sorry, I think Hank was out of maroon capes."

" _Raven_." Said Charles rolling into the room, apparently having dealt with whatever teenage drama had happened upstairs.

"Just trying to lighten the mood before I get out here." Said Raven already heading toward the door. "When the hospital gown comes out that's my cue to leave. I loss the desire to see Erik's derriere a _long_ time ago, thank you very much. Besides, I've should update the kiddies. They get it, but they were still bummed about not being able to spend the night with Peter."

This time Erik did roll his eyes at her, but he wasn't even annoyed. On the contrary, he secretly appreciated her snark because it helped him ignore the creeping anxiety building in his chest.

"Don't mind her." Said Charles as Raven exited. "She's just deflecting her nerves."

"I know." Said Erik making his way toward the bathroom to change.

_But I doubt it is effective as she pretends it is._ Erik thought 'aloud' to Charles.

_No, it's not._

Erik closed his mind off to Charles as best he could after that, already regretting purposefully projecting because he knew it only served to strengthen Charles' sense of Erik's own fear.

* * *

A few minutes later, Erik was changed and back out in the main room, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable standing in the gown before Charles and Hank, wondering absurdly if he should have kept his socks on or if it even mattered.

Erik noticed that they'd moved what could only be an operating table toward the center of the room. But what stood out to Erik the most was not the table, or Hank and Charles eyes, but what appeared to be a giant needle in Hank's hand.

Erik stared at it unblinking, and suddenly, it was not Hank holding the needle, but the man who, for a large chunk of Erik's life, had haunted Erik's dreams—Sebastian Shaw. And suddenly he was fourteen again, unable to move as the man who killed his mother stared down at him with depraved delight and interest.

"Erik."

"Erik."

_Erik!_

Erik felt himself flinch as Charles' voice reverberated through his head, finally breaking through his horror where mere spoken word could not.

_Hank's not Shaw, Erik. He's not going to intentionally hurt you._

"I know that." Said Erik dismissively, choosing to speak aloud with false nonchalance instead of having a telepathic conversation where it would be much more difficult to hide his emotions.

"If you need a moment, that's okay." Said Charles calmly, glancing over at Hank as if he was about to wave him away.

"No. I. Don't. Need. A. Moment." Replied Erik through gritted teeth.

_I'm not a child._ Erik shot his thoughts at Charles like a bullet, abandoning the false pretense that any of his feelings were beyond Charles' reach. _Nor am I a student for you to fix, Charles, so don't treat me like one._

_I'm not trying to, Erik. I merely mean to treat you as my friend. I think you've forgotten what that feels like._

Erik brushed off Charles' comment, not wanting to dwell on the truth of it. Instead, he turned to back to Hank, who was looking between them rather cautiously as though he knew they were having some silent exchange. But when they both stared back at him, he seemed to take that as his cue to continue.

"Right. So this is a Jamshidi needle. It's a hollow needle that I'll use it to make a small pathway on either side of your back pelvis—your hip bone—that will go through the bone to the bone marrow. Then with another needle attached to a syringe I'll withdraw—"

"Hank. Spare me the details." Erik said, as he felt himself pale. He knew he would be asleep during the procedure—Hank had explained as much yesterday—but that didn't make the thought of him boring into his bones much easier to take. "I'd rather not know."

Hank stared back at him. "Alright, but I still need to give you an overview. I know this isn't exactly normal circumstances, but I'm not doing my duty if you aren't at least somewhat informed about what's going to happen. This isn't the riskiest procedure, but it still isn't as simple as a cheek swab or even a blood draw."

"Fine." Said Erik, giving a small wave of his hand for the other man to continue. "Keep it short."

"Okay. As I was saying," said Hank, pushing his glasses up from where they'd fallen to the bridge of his noise, "I'll collect the liquid bone marrow via syringe, until I have an amount based on your weight that's optimal for a successful donation."

Hank stared straight at Erik, making sure he was following, probably not because he was saying anything particularly technical, but because he was concerned that—based on Erik's embarrassing display moments ago—that he'd missed Hank's explanation because he'd dropped back into whatever memory had captured him so tightly.

Satisfied that Erik seemed to be following, Hank pressed on. "The procedure will take about one to two hours. You'll be asleep during the procedure of course, and I'll give you a local anesthetic that should help with your pain level for a few hours afterward, but you will still be sore—though functional—for the next several days, and you might experience some swelling at the incision site. You may also feel a bit fatigued from the blood loss, but I'll give you a small blood donation to help with that. And again, though the circumstances are not pleasant, and the outcome of every procedure is never certain, but this is a fairly standard low-risk procedure. I have every bit of confidence that you will be fine, and back to your . . . _active_ self shortly thereafter. Then sometime after collection, Peter will receive your bone marrow intravenously."

Erik grimaced. Hank was right, none of that sounded particularly pleasant, but the side effects were not what Erik honed in on. Rather, it was the fact that Hank said _he—_ as in _Erik_ —would be fine, but he quite intentionally made no mention of The Boy's chance of recovery.

"So that's that." Said Hank, matter-of-factly, but Erik could tell he was not taking the situation lightly. "Now, I just need to check your blood pressure and heart rate to make sure everything is normal, and then . . . it's off to the races."

Hank quickly took Erik's blood pressure and heart rate and was apparently satisfied by the results because the next moment, Hank was asking him to lay prone on his stomach across the examination table, as he collected all his tools, and put on a mask and gloves

Erik found himself freezing at the request. Instinctively, he looked over to Charles, who had remained a silent but reassuring presence during Hank's explanation.

"You'll be fine, Erik. Hank knows what he's doing. The procedure will go perfectly smoothly." Said Charles giving his friend a reassuring smile.

"I'm not worried about that," said Erik. On the whole, that was true. Once he got over the initial flashback to Shaw, his anxiety was not for himself, but instead, as much as he was loathed to admit it, the overwhelming source of his unease was lying one bed over.

Charles tilted his head slightly as he looked back at Erik and smiled fondly at him. "Of course. We're all worried about Peter. But what you're doing for him have increased his chances considerably."

"You don't know that." Said Erik, who looked over at Hank—the one who was much more likely to have an idea of just what Peter's chances were—but the other man carefully avoided eye contact as he waited for Erik to comply with his command.

"It's okay to hope for the best, Erik." Charles replied softly.

_No. It's not. Even when I prepare for the worst, it's never enough. It still hurts._

Erik couldn't help but projecting, and Charles responded in-kind.

_And_ _loss will always hurt, Erik. But you haven't lost Peter yet. You're here now, and so is he . . . Now, do you trust me?_

_Yes._ Erik replied, and he was surprised that there was zero hesitation, even in his nonverbal response. They might disagree about many things, but for some reason Erik never quite understood, Charles cared about him, and he'd not trust him to make certain life-changing decisions, but he would trust him with his life.

At that, Charles smiled more brightly, and if he wasn't mistaken, he saw a glimmer of wetness in his eyes as well. "Then lay down, Erik, and relax. When you wake up, Peter will be that much closer to getting better."

Erik nodded, though he still refused to give into Charles' optimism. Nonetheless, he laid down on his stomach and waited for Charles—as opposed to anesthesia—to put him to sleep.

As he drifted off, an impossible scene filled his head—one that could only be Charles creation—of Anya, Nina, and The Boy all together. They weren't doing much. Just running around and laughing together. But it was still so beautiful, to see the impossibility of them together, healthy, and so very _very_ alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I tried to keep the medical lingo realistic, but I'm by no means an expert. I also don't know if everything is comparable between the research I found about how bone marrow transplants work today versus how they actually worked in the eighties.


	6. Chapter 6

Hank hadn't been lying about the soreness and fatigue after the procedure.

It was by no means the worse pain Erik had ever suffered—not even close—but all the same, it was a discomfort that Erik could have done without. Then again, at least the physical pain gave him something to focus on, no matter how brief, while he waited for . . . something to happen.

Following the procedure that was really all he had done—a whole lot of waiting. After a couple of days he felt more like exercising than resting, and when no one else was around, he would use the space next to The Boy's bed to do push-ups and other calisthenics. In that way, it was much like his time imprisoned under the Pentagon. Though here, he wasn't truly imprisoned.

He _could_ leave the underground lair that held his—held The Boy, and he sometimes did, mainly to allow The Boy's friends to visit him without having to interact with the brood, for Erik had no desire to chitchat with teenagers (or however old they were). Though he did, from time to time, tolerate Jean's presence while he sat near The Boy. She came more frequently than the others, to the point where Erik wondered if she was taken with The Boy. Or perhaps, Jean came more often because she was searching for a sign that The Boy was on the mend, even if she couldn't clearly read his mind in his current state, or maybe ever based on what Charles had implied about the pace of The Boy's mind.

When Erik wasn't with The Boy, he'd walk the grounds, avoiding the students, Charles, Hank, and Raven alike.

He hadn't asked Charles directly, but he didn't think it was _exactly_ a secret that he was at the school. Most of the students had accepted his presence for a short time after Apocalypse, even if at that time—besides when he helped Jean rebuild the school—he had also kept to himself as much as possible. Therefore, he wasn't overly concerned about anyone alerting the authorities that he had stopped by. Although the young mutants here were growing up under Charles more . . . _optimistic_ (and civil) approach to interactions with humans and society, he had no fear of the government coming for him because of a child's report. Charles' students might view him as a tragic figure at best or a supervillain at worst, but no matter how accepting any mutant's family was of—as some might put it—their _affliction_ , every mutant had at some time felt 'other'. They might not approve of him, but Erik had the sense that they respected that he was one of them—no matter how much Charles pushed that they weren't so different from the humans—more so than any human could ever be. Erik realized—with a twist in his gut—that Shaw had applied that same logic to their interactions, refusing to harm him—at least to the point of permanent damage—because they were the same.

At that, a shudder past through the metal-bender, but he was not quite aware of it; and a moment later his thoughts had moved on.

Even if the students were aware of his presence, Erik knew not for certain whether any of the children—outside of Jean—knew _why_ he was here. Had The Boy told everyone but himself of their relation, or had he kept that a secret for reasons that would undoubtedly not align with Erik's own?

Erik didn't so much sigh as let out the air from his lungs in a deep breath, as if he were trying to empty them completely and forever as he walked toward the edge of the woods. It was nearly twilight as he stepped onto the paved path around the edge of the estate's pond.

He wouldn't go so far as to say that he enjoyed such walks or the woods, for he didn't find much enjoyment in anything anymore, but despite what had happened to Nina in woods not dissimilar to the ones in Westchester, the strolls among the wooded landscape brought him a certain sense of calm. On their humble piece of land, the animal-filled timber had—unsurprisingly—been one of his daughter's favorite stomping grounds, if not _the_ favorite. In contrast, Anya hadn't been the outdoorsy type, but there was still something about being among the sounds and beauty of nature that made him feel connected to both of his daughters.

He briefly wondered if The Boy enjoyed the woods. He didn't seem like much of a boy scout. The thought of him out in the woods in the outfit he'd been wearing the first time they met—disregarding the guard's uniform—was comical. But if that was true, if The Boy really did not enjoy the great outdoors, would that still be true if he'd had someone around growing up to teach him how to build a fire with only mother nature's bounty, to identify edible plants and find clean water, and navigate by using only the stars? Or was Erik putting too much weight on the role he could have had in The Boy's life if he'd never parted ways from Magda?

Erik closed his eyes, allowing himself to tune into the earth's magnetic field and any other metal that might be around, and noted the presence of a coin that had been dropped or discarded on the path beside him. Opening his eyes, Erik let the coin float to his hand, and he closed his fist around it.

He had a fleeting urge to hurdle it into the water in front of him, but—thinking of Nina and how excited she was whenever she found a stray coin on the ground—ultimately, he let it drop from his hand and fall to the ground once more, where perhaps a child would stumble upon it and have their day brightened.

"That was very sweet of you." A voice said from behind Erik. He didn't bother turning to see who said voice belonged to. He already knew.

"Must I once again remind you that other people's minds are not your playground?" asked Erik only slightly irritated. How angry could he be at the other man when he'd been looking after The Boy since before Erik had left the mansion for what he had once again thought would be the last time?

"My apologies. You're mind's not as guarded when you believe yourself alone." Charles' said with almost an air of regret—regret on Erik's behalf that he felt he had to shield the whole of himself from his old friend.

"Of course. It's _my_ fault that you were privy to my thoughts. My regrets then for not properly shielding them when I—as you said—believed myself to be alone." Said Erik sarcastically, giving Charles a quick sidelong glance.

"You know I didn't mean to blame you. You're right. I will endeavor to better respect your privacy. It's just . . . you're out of practice, Erik. In the decade or so after Washington, you may have kept some things more hidden about yourself than ever before, but you also opened up to others in a way that you'd never done . . . at least not since I have known you. And now, well that cumulation of events makes it easier to slip in when you're not trying to hide yourself, or I should say, it's harder for me to stay out." Said Charles rolling up beside him.

Erik huffed out a humorless laugh before replying once again with sarcasm. "Thanks for the reminder. Really needed that."

He saw Natalia and Nina's smiling faces flash before his eyes and then warp into emotionless facades frozen in death before Erik quickly tried to dispel their faces from his mind, having no desire for Charles' everlasting pity. But it seemed he'd be subjected to it nonetheless, because as he glanced over at Charles once again, the other man looked deeply pained and a tear had traveled from the corner of his left eye down his cheek.

"I don't mean to hurt you, Erik. I wish . . . I wish your happiness was a permanent fixture, rather than a fleeting moment in time. As much as you think you deserve the pain, you don't. You didn't deserve to lose your family. Not once. Not twice. Not three times over. And you don't deserve to lose Peter either."

At the mention of The Boy, Erik tensed, his back going ramrod straight. "I don't _have_ and I've never _had_ The Boy to lose him." Erik said coolly.

"You showed up, Erik. That's not nothing." Charles pressed.

"It's the least I could do. The very _least_. I'm 50% responsible for his existence, and yet . . . I wasn't there when he was born. I wasn't there for anything up to now. The least I could do was be here when—he—he . . ."

A shudder ran through his body for the second time that day, and Erik found he couldn't finish the sentence. He sensed Charles wheel himself closer, and a moment later, he felt a comforting hand on his elbow; but Erik quickly shrugged him off, taking a step away to put the lost distance between them once more.

"I don't know what I'll do after." Said Erik finally.

"Don't think about that. You have to stay positive. He may not look like much now, but Peter's always been stronger than he looks. He could pull through. Hank's optimistic right now." said Charles, looking like he wanted to once again move closer to his distressed friend, but he didn't.

"No. That's not—I don't. I don't mean that. I want him to live, obviously, but I'm not going to allow myself to be optimistic about his chances. Such a trait has never served me well. It's not that I've accepted his death, but if he does die . . . I know how I'll go on—the same way I have been, I'll just . . . exist—survive—wake, eat, sleep, avoid thinking . . . I meant, I don't know what I'll do _if_ he lives."

Charles looked over at him, brow furrowed. Erik thought, for a man who could read minds, it was almost inappropriately amusing that he was so perplexed by Erik's words. Erik decided to end his puzzlement before Charles could ask for clarification or wade through Erik's thoughts.

"I don't know how to be a father again, Charles. I don't know that I can. I know they've both been at the forefront of my mind recently, so if you didn't before, you must know now that I had a daughter before Nina, and I had to bury her too. And so, the part of myself that was a father went up in flames when Anya died, . . . but somehow I resurrected it again when Nina was born. But I don't think—I can't be a father a third time. I _can't_. There's nothing left of me to give, not as a father. That part of myself died for good this time with the loosing of an arrow, along with my daughter and my wife."

And with that, Erik found that he couldn't stand anymore. Fortunately, there was a small bench behind the two men, so Erik managed enough strength to sink down onto it, rather than just collapsing into the dirt. He immediately regretted the decision though, because the stone bench did not meld well with the lingering pain in his backside.

Given Erik's new position, Charles swiveled his chair around to face his friend now that they were more or less at eye level.

"But that's _not_ true, Erik, because, as I've said—You. Showed. Up. You're already being a father to Peter just by being here. You know I'm not—nor will I ever be—a father, but I know _you_ , so I know the rest will come. And Peter doesn't need you to be the father you were to Anya or Nina, and he doesn't expect you to be. He knows what you've lost, and he's lost people too, Erik. You'll be so good for each other. I know it." Said Charles kindly.

"Because 'misery loves company.'" Said Erik bitterly.

"No. Because 'our most basic instinct is not for survival . . . but for family.'" Charles replied firmly without a moment's hesitation.

Erik paused, letting Charles' words sink in. "Maybe that's true, but I would think you'd be one of the first to tell me that there's enough evidence of my decisions to know that my instincts too often serve me poorly."

"Not that one. Not the one that has guided your decisions as a father." Said Charles. "Those instincts have always been exception.

"How would you know?!" Erik nearly shouted standing up again and surprising even himself, "you know _nothing_ of that part of my life. In the past two decades or so we've only spent a handful of time together. In the grand scheme of things, you barely know me at all, no matter what you've seen—or _think_ you've seen—in my mind."

Charles looked back up at Erik, but unlike the other man, nothing in his demeanor hinted at the possibility of anger. Instead, his face appeared to hold only sympathy for his friend as his next words were said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"It's not what I've seen in your mind that tells me you have been and _will continue_ to be a good father, Erik. It's what I've seen of your heart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little sappy, I know. I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Quote sources for this chapter:
> 
> "misery loves company" = John Ray (I think? That's what Google told me anyway.)
> 
> "Our most basic instinct is not for survival but for family." = Paul Pearsall


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I play _Carried Me With You_ by Brandi Carlile on repeat while writing this chapter? Yes. Yes I did.

The days continued. And in the unchanging limbo, Erik lost track as to whether one week or two has passed. But despite the seemingly unending purgatory, Hank—unlike Erik—was outwardly hopeful and quite happy with the steady results of The Boy's developing blood work.

But Erik couldn't let himself see beyond the moment in front of him. He still saw flashes of how he had at one time imagined his daughters' lives to be when they were The Boy's age, when they were Erik's age, or even older when he should have been the one who was gone and they the ones who remained. And now those not-memories were cemented in his head, never to be realized or replaced by the real thing. Though Hank insisted that The Boy's vitals also looked promising, he'd yet to have a coherent bout of wakefulness since the transplant. And so, despite Hank's optimism, Erik feared he was waiting for a day that would never come.

These dark thoughts kept protruding into Erik's mind as he sat by The Boy's bed and attempted to read the newspaper. Along with his walks, it had become a routine for him these past couple of weeks, not really to keep up with the events of the world, for such things remained more or less the same; no, Erik read the newspaper because it was the one reliable piece of evidence that he could use to mark the passage of time, that and the steady growth of his beard. Even if he no longer paid attention to the date, the fact that there was a different cover story and image each day assured him that the days were truly passing by.

The metal bender shifted in his seat, comfortable though the chair was, Erik had yet to fully recover from the procedure, so no matter how comfortable, it was never going to ease the ache in Erik's backside—not today anyway—no matter how much he shifted.

Erik flipped a page. He didn't know why he bothered with the news. It was always depressing, biased, boring, or all of the above. He should find a better way to keep track of the days, but his sleep schedule was so erratic that he did not trust himself to tell one day from the next based on the rising and setting of the sun. But nonetheless, he kept reading, or trying to, for he read the same line over and over again. Giving up with that particular story, Erik was about to flip the page and pick something new at random when, above the edge of the paper, he saw two dark eyes staring at him.

The newspaper dropped from his hand. Forgotten.

He stared at The Boy's face, the silence stretching on for far too long as he searched for something to say.

"You're awake." He said, and what a poor start to a conversation that was. Impersonal, uncaring, like a narrator in documentary. His second statement wasn't much better. "How are you feeling?"

"Like death." The Boy replied immediately and completely deadpanned.

In spite of himself, Erik felt his lip twitch. He knew The Boy was witty from their prior interactions, no matter how brief and seemingly insignificant such interactions were, but he'd thought that a brush with—or more like a tackle from—death would quash that quality within him. It cheered Erik slightly that it had not. But then he realized, perhaps The Boy was not being wholly sarcastic and in fact needed immediate attention. Panicking slightly, Erik began to rise from his chair.

"I'll go get Hank." Erik said, wondering if The Boy could hear the slight tremor in his voice.

"Wait. I'm okay for a bit." The Boy said quickly. His eyes were wide as he watched Erik settle slowly back into his chair. They seemed impossibly large, but that was likely due to The Boy's significant weight loss, which made the bones in his face stand out so extremely and his eyes—eyes so much like Nina and Anya's—overwhelming.

The Boy squeezed his eyes shut again once Erik had reoccupied his chair. Erik had half a mind to get up and search for Hank despite The Boy's reassurance that he was fine. He was nowhere near convinced that The Boy was in top form. But Erik was ashamed to say that he didn't know whether that impulse to leave and retrieve Hank was for fear that The Boy was in pain, or because he dreaded talking to The Boy. But ultimately, Erik remained, and watched an emotion he could not quite identify pass over The Boy's face.

But just as Erik thought he was about to put his finger on it, The Boy opened his eyes once more. "They weren't supposed to call you. I asked them not to. Charles, Raven, Hank—they _promised_ that they wouldn't."

And there it was, as plan as could be. Erik wasn't wanted, not even by his own flesh and blood. It wasn't the first time his presence had been unwelcome, but it had never stung quite so much.

Erik swallowed before answering, hoping his voice didn't reflect his inner turmoil. "I'm aware. And they didn't break their promise, though I suspect they were about to . . . Miss Grey was the one who contacted me. But, promise or no promise, I'm glad she did, because if she hadn't . . . you'd be dead." Erik said, once again regretting his words, afraid that he sounded self-righteous, taking claim for The Boy's yet uncertain survival. But if The Boy was offended, he didn't show it.

Instead, The Boy responded matter-of-factly, "So you were a match then?" The Boy asked, studying Erik intently, and once again, under the scrutiny, a part of Erik longed to flee. His presence could only lead to disappointment. But the other part of Erik—the part that had wanted to forever hold his daughters tight and protect them from the dangers of the world—was growing stronger with each word The Boy spoke.

"Yes." Said Erik because he didn't trust himself to say more. He was afraid, afraid that if he did, he'd say something that The Boy—who could barely weigh more than seven stone soaking wet—would ask him to leave, and even more afraid that if he did, he wouldn't be brave enough to refuse the request.

Because leaving would be easier.

Leaving was always easier.

"Doesn't mean I still won't die." Replied The Boy bluntly, as if he were stating some trivial fact and not the grave matter of his life or death.

Erik pursed his lips together. As much as he had been telling himself over and over again during his time back at the school that The Boy might die, hearing such a pronouncement from The Boy's own mouth was like a knife to the gut, and his first instinct was to refute it. But he wasn't so cruel as to give the boy false hope. "Maybe. But, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to be here for whatever may come."

Erik didn't realize how true those words were until he spoke them, but once he did, something loosened in his chest. He didn't know The Boy, not at all. But he wanted to. As much as he had wanted to know what Anya's favorite color—which seemed to change as quickly as the direction of the wind—had been from one day to the next, or what adventures Nina had gotten up to with her animal friends while he had been at the factory. He wanted to know The Boy . . . Peter . . . Pietro . . . _his son._ He wanted to know his best memory, his favorite artist, his most cherished book, his hopes, his dreams, his fears, his wanted to know it all, but if he didn't have time for that, he would take what he could get. He would take it, and he'd carry it with him. Always.

Because that's what he did with Anya and Nina too. He always carried them with him. Sometimes he had to bury them deep in his mind, but Charles was right, they were still there. There was no getting rid of that part of himself completely.

"Would you? If I were you, I don't think I'd want to be." Said Pietro, pulling Erik from his thoughts at the same time that that he began pulling at a loose thread on the bedsheet that covered his too-frail body. "I mean, this is all pretty awkward. Like more awkward than that time I broke you out of prison. And you didn't ask for . . . any of this."

_No._ Erik thought. _But I was_ _given the gift of you all the same_.

He knew that wasn't what Pietro meant though. He meant that if Erik was the one who was ill—or maybe he even meant that if Erik was the child—Pietro wouldn't have wanted to be here. But he was wrong. His son was so much better than Erik. He didn't know Pietro, but he knew that. Because, in their brief time together and by the nature of everyone at the school who was hoping he'd make a miraculous recovery, Erik saw the same spirit in the young man that he saw in Nina—in Anya, in Magda, in Natalia, in Erik's mother—and in everyone that he cared about had, but what he himself lacked. So how wrong he was. Because if their roles were reversed, he knew Pietro wouldn't have hesitated to come to Erik's aid. And if Pietro was the one who had a son clinging to life, he wouldn't have needed to come to his aid at all . . . because, unlike Erik, he never would have left.

But Erik didn't say any of that because neither of them were ready for such an unloading of emotions. Instead, he kept his reply characteristically short. "Neither did you, Peter."

" _Still._ " Said Peter, gazing down at the sheet again with a look of such defeat that Erik felt the ache in his heart intensify.

But Erik didn't get a chance to read much beyond that from Pietro's face because he looked down too quickly in response to Erik's words. And once again, Erik wouldn't allow himself to take it as a sign that Pietro was regaining strength by the speed of that movement. In any event, Erik didn't need to see Pietro's face to know—to some extent—what he was feeling. The movements of his hands told him enough.

"My daughter, she used to do that too, when she was nervous." Said Erik nodding at Pietro's hand as he glanced up to see what Erik was referring to, visibly confused and somewhat fearful, as if he had been caught doing something wrong and was waiting for admonishment. The habit was obviously one he wasn't conscious of. Anya had been the same way, never understanding how the sleeves of her tiny jumpers frayed so easily. Nina was quite the gregarious child, with humans and animals alike, but Anya . . . Anya had been a shy little thing, and when she encountered something new, if her mother's skirts or Papa's legs weren't around to hide behind, her jackets and jumpers had better beware.

It was somewhat disconcerting to see the same habit in The B—in Pietro. But with a pain in his chest, Erik realized that—although he had been quite boisterous during their first encounter—maybe, when he was truly nervous or made uncomfortable by a new situation, Pietro had the same crutch as his first little girl. And this was a new situation, wasn't it? Because Erik had left all those years ago, they'd never even had a proper conversation together, at least not as father and son.

However, apparently this was not something Erik should have pointed out, because Pietro immediately stopped his fiddling and brought his hands to rest at his side. Erik could tell the resituating caused him some pain because a slight shudder rain through his body at the movement, and Erik felt himself flinch in response.

"They told me about what happened to your mother." Erik continued cautiously. "I'm sorry. I loved her . . . once."

And, if Erik was being honest, part of him had always loved her, even when Natalia came along, and even now, some part of him continued to love Magda. It didn't take away from his love for his second wife, for the love he carried, and would always carry, for Magda was like the feeling you had when thinking back on a treasured moment in youth—remembered fondly, but never to be experienced fully again. But they'd lived a life together (or part of one) and had a child—children—together. That was not something you could let go of.

"It's fine." Said Pietro, bringing Erik's attention back to his son completely, and Erik didn't have to know his child very well to know that he was lying. "It's not like I lost her when I was a kid. I got a lot of good years with her, ya know?"

_You still_ _are_ _a kid_ was Erik's first thought.

_My_ _kid_ was his second.

It didn't matter if Pietro felt that he should be old enough to handle such a loss. And it didn't matter if he'd been older than Erik was when he'd lost his own mother. One may pull further and further away from his mother as he grows, but no one ever truly wants that thread to break. And when it does . . . it will always be too soon.

Though there was no dust in the air, Erik blinked several times before he looked at his son. "That doesn't matter. No matter our age, it's never easy to lose the ones we love."

"You don't have to be here." Pietro said, once again deliberately trying push his father away while he unwittingly started fiddling with the sheet once more, though he had moved onto scrunching up the material more than pulling at a thread. Thus, this time, Erik was reminded of Nina and the blanket she had clung too as a toddler. But he didn't have long to dwell on such image for Pietro quickly continued, "Like I said, I might—I still might not make it. And parents shouldn't have to bury their kids. I don't mean—I mean you're not really—I'm not asking you to be my—"

"Peter." Said Erik cutting him off. He had said his name before—or the one he seemed to prefer—but this time it felt different because it preceded something monumental—a promise . . . or a pledge from a father to a son. "I _want_ to be here. No matter what happens. I want to be—to be something to you at least . . . no matter how much time I've missed . . . or—or how much time I have with you, I'd like to be your parent. Your _father_ . . . If you'd let me."

Erik held his breath as he waited for Pietro's reply. He couldn't recall a time when he had ever felt more laid bare, like it was his life on the line and not Pietro's. For as much as he had tried to resist, to deny, to carve the feeling from his body, when it came down to it, his reason for living—not just surviving—had always been family. And Pietro was his family. If he would only accept him as such in return.

Erik took a deep breath, steeling himself to reassure Pietro that it was O.K. He understood. It was too much of him to ask for something so significant when—until very recently—he had never given Pietro anything. He had missed so many moments. It wasn't fair of him to ask for them now, especially if Pietro had precious few left.

But before he could speak, Pietro lifted his head. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, but a smile adorned his face, making his son look more alive than Erik had seen him since his return to Westchester.

It was a beautiful thing to behold.

But his next words were even more so.

"Yea, I think I would like that."

He probably looked ridiculous—he'd never had the best smile—but Erik grinned back at Pietro.

And he was happy then. Happy to have that moment, even if that was all he would have with his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we've reached the end. . . . at least of this Part. I always have possible sequels floating around in my head for my fics, but whether or not they get to the page is anyone's guess. Thanks for reading!


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